It was quite dark, silent, and gloomy in the woods, and she sped on—­on past huge trees, through open glades, down through little sinks and swales, and up on high ground, until she came to an opening.  “Thank God! thank God!” cried the relieved and grateful child; “I am out at last.  How glad I am!” And she reached the margin of the woods, to be confronted with an interminable black jungle of fallen and decaying tree-trunks, limbs and thick standing brush, over which, and out of which, stood the dense tops of young trees.  She paused for a moment, and turning to the left, thought to skirt about this obstruction, until she should reach the fence and field, which she was sure were now near her.  On and on, and still on she went; over the trunks of fallen trees, through tangles of brush and pools of water, until, when she turned to look for the opening, she was alarmed and dismayed to find that it had disappeared.  Her heart now for the first time sank within her.  She listened, but no sound, save the ominous moan in the air, came to her ear.  The solemn, still, black night was all about her.  She looked up, and a cold, starless, dim blank was all over her; and all around, standing thick, were cold, dark, silent trees.  She stood and tried to think back:  where was she, and how came she there?  She knew she had once turned back, from something to somewhere—­to the old road, as she remembered; and it flashed across her, that in the strange appearance of things, and in her confusion, she had crossed it, and was in the awful, endless woods!  How far had she gone?  If lost, had she wandered round and round, as lost folks do?  Then she thought of her dear, distracted mother, and of her brave and kind father.  She had been missed, and they were looking for her.  Everybody would hear of it, and would join in the hunt; and Barton might hear of it, and if he did, she knew he would come to find her.  He was generous and heroic; and what a wonder and a talk it would all make, and she didn’t care if it did.  Then she wondered if she had not better stop and stand still, for fear she would go wrong.  How awfully dark it was, and the air was chilly.  Did she really know which way home was?  And she strained her unseeing eyes intently for a moment, and then closed them, to let the way come into her mind.  That must be the way, and she would go in that direction until she thought she could make them hear; and then she would call.  And ere she started, amid the cold, unpitying trees, in her purity and innocence, that savage nature reveres and respects, she knelt and prayed; she asked for guidance and strength, and arose hopeful.  But she found that she was very weary:  her feet were wet and cold, and when she was to start, that she was confused and uncertain as to the direction.  One more invocation, and she went forward.  How far or how long she travelled, she had no idea.  She paused to listen:  no sound.  Perhaps they would now hear her, and she raised her voice, and called her father’s name, and again and again, with all her force, through the black, blank, earless night, she sent her cry.